


I love to hate you

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [15]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings have been quiet since Neal started his new job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I love to hate you

My darling [](http://sinfulslasher.livejournal.com/profile)[**sinfulslasher**](http://sinfulslasher.livejournal.com/) asked for the deets on how [Peter dented the wall](http://fatale.livejournal.com/263609.html), so--

Part 15 of [this complicated thing we have](http://archiveofourown.org/series/46010)

 

I love to hate you  
Neal/Peter  
WC: approx. 1070  
PG

 

Mornings have been quiet since Neal started his new job. He works later, sleeps in, wakes up hours after El and Peter have already gone. Truth be told, he secretly likes his leisurely morning routine.

Neal yawns, pulls down his cereal from the cabinet, gives it a customary little shake. Nothing rattles, nothing moves. He gives it another disbelieving jiggle, tears open the box and peers inside. Nothing but empty air, a lying bastard of a box devoid of his delicious tiny sugary corn flakes. Fucking _Peter_.

 _This is bullshit_ , Neal thinks, staring at the empty box longingly. This is the last goddamn straw. It’s not to be _borne_.

He glares at El’s box of Grape-Nuts as he pours himself a bowl.

 

\---

 

Living with Peter and El is mostly great. There’s lots of sex, El’s a good cook, they don’t ask Neal what he gets up to when he’s locked in his room for hours at a time (answer: nothing good), but there have been a few unsavory details to a life of cohabitation that Neal didn’t see coming. Namely, Peter in the early mornings is not the Peter of late afternoons -- which is to say, in the late afternoon, Peter is sharp, sexy, and wickedly smart. In the early mornings, before coffee, he’s a stumbling robot, a borderline idiot. He puts his running shoes in the freezer, finishes the juice and puts it back in the refrigerator, attempts to shave with a toothbrush.

And lately, he’s been finishing off Neal’s food with alarming gusto, eating an entire box of Neal’s favorite cereal in two days, wetting it with Neal’s special peach Greek yogurt, because apparently, to Peter, yogurt and milk are easily confused.

In a fit of rage, Neal eats all of Peter’s chocolate chip cookies and ice cream sandwiches, gives himself a terrible stomachache, and has to call in sick to work.

 

\---

 

Neal continues to eat all of Peter’s food for the next three weeks, jamming sweets in his mouth two at a time. Sure, he could throw it away, but he’s busy making a _point_.

Neal’s standing at the counter when Peter looks through the freezer, humming absently off-key. “Huh,” he says and Neal braces himself, the smug warm glow of vindication blossoming in his chest.

“Guess I ate the rest of my ice cream,” Peter says and grabs a popsicle instead. He unwraps it, pops it in his mouth, and loosens his tie with one hand. “This heat, God,” Peter says around the popsicle.

“Oh -- _fuck you_ ,” Neal splutters.

“I--” Peter says, mouth hanging open.

“I’ve been eating your food for weeks -- I’ve gained three pounds!”

“And you look -- great,” Peter says, looking deeply confused.

“You keep eating all my cereal!”

Peter puts his popsicle down. “So, you ate my food? Because I don’t have any particular food. We live together, Neal. It’s kind of all our food.”

“I know, _fuck_ , I know,” Neal says rubbing a hand across his face. “It’s just -- my cereal. It’s how I wake in the morning. Coffee, cereal, shower. I have a routine.” He starts into the living room, wondering if he’s nuts. If he’s actually gone around the bend over breakfast food.

“Sorry,” Peter says, throwing his hands up and following. “Didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

“Didn’t know it bothered me so much, you stupid bastard?” Neal yells, completely out of control again. He realizes that this is all about cereal, and that it’s a ridiculous thing to fight about, but he’s been passive-aggressively fighting with Peter for weeks now, and Peter hasn’t even noticed. The best way to fight would have been to withhold sex, but Jesus Christ, Neal’s not a masochist. A man has his limits.

“Fine, I’ll replace your cereal if it means that much to you,” Peter says, staring at Neal like he’s crazy. He takes a step back and Neal sees his foot tangle in the rug, knows Peter’s going to fall before he even loses his balance, but he’s too slow to shout a warning. He sees Peter stumble, closes his eyes as he hears the sharp thud of flesh hitting the wall -- and oh fuck, a crunch.

“Ow,” Peter says, sounding dazed.

Neal’s eyes fly open to see Peter sprawled on the floor, legs akimbo, right arm in the air. On the wall, there’s a angry dent in the plaster. _El’s going to be mad_ , Neal thinks distantly.

“Ow,” Peter repeats, sadly.

Neal drops to his knees and crawls towards Peter. “Peter, Peter--”

Whatever he hears in Neal’s voice, it ends their fight. “Hey, Neal. Hey, I’m fine,” Peter says softly, reaching out for him. “It was just my elbow, and it’s -- okay, it doesn’t feel great, but I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal chokes out. “Jesus, this was such a stupid argument.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” Peter says. “I, uh, may have been eating your cereal -- not on purpose. Just, we’ve been keeping different hours and El and I don’t see you in the mornings and it kind of reminds me of you, I guess. It’s like getting to eat breakfast with you.”

“And the yogurt--”

“That was an accident,” Peter says. "Let it go."

“It’s okay,” Neal says and means it. He takes Peter’s hand. “Is there anything I can do for your elbow?”

“You could kiss it better.”

“I don’t love you that much,” Neal says, rolling his eyes.

“Ahhh, I’m feeling faint,” Peter complains. “The light -- it’s getting brighter, beckoning me--”

“Fine,” Neal snaps. “I’ll do it if you’ll stop that.” He takes Peter’s offered elbow, brushes a light kiss across it. Then kisses it again for good measure.

“That was great,” Peter says, grinning, “but also, I probably need an ice pack and a trip to the hospital.”

 

\---

 

It’s a hairline fracture, nothing serious. Peter milks his injury for all he’s worth, getting Neal to wait on him hand and foot.

Until Monday, when Peter finds out he’s on desk duty due to his injury.

Neal nearly laughs himself sick.

 

\---

 

Neal slumps into the kitchen, grabs for his cereal, gives it a shake. Nothing left but nasty cereal dust. He smiles and puts it back. He goes to the freezer, pushes Peter’s running shoes out of the way, and pulls out an ice cream sandwich for breakfast.

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
